


Everything's Coming Up... Blake?

by mmacy



Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: Angst, Comfort, relationship progression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmacy/pseuds/mmacy
Summary: Behind the scenes look into Blake and Elizabeth’s relationship. (Editing the tags as we go).
Relationships: Elizabeth McCord & Blake Moran, Elizabeth McCord/Henry McCord
Comments: 34
Kudos: 31





	1. Lunchtime Loneliness

His fingers hover over his keyboard as one of Nadine’s interns, Rachel he believes, approaches his desk, walking as if her tail is tucked between her legs— surely not a good sign being as she’d just been in with the Secretary a moment ago.

He meets her eyes, and— “Yeah?” He asks. 

He sees her swallow as she jerks out her arm in his direction, file in hand. 

“Maybe you can talk to her?” She asks. “This needs to be signed off on, but—” She shakes her head. “She’s obviously not in a good mood.” 

He raises a brow. She was fine an hour ago— smiling actually about the evening plans Henry had arranged since he couldn’t make lunch. 

“Sure.” He reaches out and she eagerly hands over the folder. “I’m sure it’s—” He begins, but she’s already scurrying away. “Not your fault,” he whispers as he stands to make the short walk to her office. 

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since she’d taken the oath, and she had yet to piss anyone off… well, no one important. No one important other than the one person who seemed to despise all and anything having to do with the Secretary. The new one at least. He’d heard talk that when Marsh was behind the desk on seven, she was happy, she was helpful, and she was more than willing to serve at the pleasure. 

“I thought we weren’t going to give Nadine any more reasons to hate you?” He asks as he passes through the door.

His footsteps falter when he realizes her head is in her hands. 

“I think my days would be better spent trying to crack time travel than trying to get her to like me,” she mumbles. 

His forehead pinches as he strides towards the front of her desk.

Her hands fall away from her face and she glances in his direction. 

He frowns. 

Her fingers are pressing into her temples, rubbing in circles, and—

Headache…?

“Are you feeling unwell?” He asks as slips the folder onto the corner of her desk. 

“I’m fine,” she mutters, but her nose is scrunched up, her fingers continue to press into her skin, and he can almost see her wince. 

“Fine doesn’t send interns crying.” His eyes roam the room, roam her desk. “And by the way Nadi—” His stare lands on the untouched salad. “Why haven’t you eaten?” 

She looks up and shrugs. “I’m just—” She sighs. “Not hungry, okay?” 

His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. 

He may have only been at this for the past two weeks, six if he counted the confirmation hearing and the transition period, but he knew from experience that although she often forgot, Elizabeth McCord was always hungry.

“You need to eat.” 

She shakes her head as she leans forward in her chair and grabs the top binder from the stack of four. 

He rounds the desk. “It’s not a choice,” he says as he pulls at the back of her chair— having wheels on the bottom, it glides back effortlessly. 

“Blake,” she complains as he takes the binder from her hands. 

He tosses it onto the middle of her desk. “Come,” he demands. 

The first two, maybe three days, she’d been the one leading him, but by the end of Wednesday, he knew he would be the one managing her. Her schedule? He dictated it. Her emails? He sent them— though there was one morning where he’d woken up to see replies sent out around three am. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She’d told him. Her eating habits were to be added to his list of his responsibilities— it was his job. 

“I—” 

He gives her a look. “I won’t apologize for whatever it is you said to Rachel,” he threatens. 

“Blake.” It’s a whine. He knew she was avoiding her chief of staff, and he knew she knew that if he didn’t apologize, Nadine very well may come stomping in here later this afternoon, demanding an apology. 

“Follow me,” he commands.

When she stands, he turns and makes for the door. 

He looks over his shoulder, confirming she was indeed following, before— “If you didn’t want a salad, I could’ve ordered something else,” he says as they turn the corner. 

“It’s not the salad,” she whispers.

He gives her a face, not much of one, but the little bit of a frown that now played on his lips was sure to be noticed, at least by her. He turns back. 

“Good afternoon Madam Secretary.” Someone on their left says— he hopes she gives them a smile. 

She steps up to his side, maybe hoping he could block her from the staffers’ eyes. 

“I wasn’t going to tell you this—” he begins as they pass through the doorway into the breakroom. He points to the table. “Sit,” he commands. He’s met with an eyeroll, but she’s pulling the chair out from the table a moment later. He turns to the fridge. “I wasn’t going to tell you—” he starts again. “—but you get grumpy when you don’t eat regularly.” He pulls a brown paper bag from the top shelf.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been told before?”

He straightens up, turns to the table, and his mouth opens, but— she holds up a finger. “Don’t answer that.”

He smiles. 

“So—” He sits, and he’s already begun pulling the items from the bag. “I hope this’ll do. If not, Matt has some soup in there I think you’d like.”

“Really I—” 

“Or I can always run out,” he offers as he sets a container of yogurt onto the table. 

“Blake.” 

He looks up. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re not hungry because you’re following my sandwich with your eyes.”

He separates the two halves and slides the napkin with the bigger one over to her. 

“Go on,” he urges, and she takes a bite. 

They eat in silence for the next few minutes or so, enough time for her to finish her half, and work through the cup of yogurt he’d offered next. 

“Are you going to tell me why you didn’t eat?” He asks. “Because that salad—” although mostly more cheese and croutons then spinach. “—is your favorite,” he says.

Her spoon scraps against the side of the plastic cup, and— she looks up. “I don’t like eating alone,” she admits. 

His lips part. “Oh,” he mutters. Of all the things he’d expected her to say, everything he had expected to be wrong, that possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. It made sense. The last two weeks they’d been working on a minute-to-minute schedule— the staff had been eating together, sometimes stealing a bite to eat in the car on the way to a meeting, sometimes sitting together in the conference room. Today was the first day they’d had some downtime, time for a real lunch, a separate lunch. 

He can manage this.

“Finish your yogurt,” he tells her.

The next day he ate with her in her office, and the day after he arranged for Henry to eat with her at one of the parks they were quickly growing to like. Over the weekend he would create a rotating schedule between the senior staff of assigned lunch days and times— he’d leave out Nadine… hopefully just for now.


	2. Circumstances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one... sorry, but another should be up shortly

_He held her hand In India._

He had been bickering with Scott when he’d felt the first tremor. What had come next was still a blur— a mess of bodies, a head rush of adrenaline, and a blast of heat.

They’d been escorted to the bunker side by side with Jason somewhere in front. And at some point along the way, sometime after the second turn of the hallway, she’d grabbed his hand.

It took them five minutes to get to where DS were ushering them, and in those five minutes, he ignored the way in which her nails dug into his skin.

When his heartbeat finally returned to normal, her hand was still in his as she’d screamed in Fred’s face— her tone was a new one. Differing from the stern words she’d come to use with diplomats, this… this was her being a mother.

Although he’d missed her lead agent’s response, the face she made when she’d turned to him, and the worry in her eyes, said it all. His hand moved to her back. “It’ll be okay,” he’d assured.

Nadine took his place next to her, so he could make a few phone calls, but he could feel her want to hover.

And when he saw her get in Fred’s face again, pestering him about going back out there into the dust and rubble, he’d wished they’d gone to Turkey.


	3. Glimpse

_She wore only a towel before negotiating with the Bulgarians_

She’d been clingy ever since the coffee with the Israeli delegation. She doesn’t say why, and he doesn’t ask. But the following night when she’s summoned to the Situation Room to deal with a rapidly unfolding situation in North Korea, she lets herself slip in the car— ‘I’m fine’ she’d said, but the look she gave him after they’d left DS at the door said differently. Now anytime they’re called to the White House he can’t help but notice the way she fidgets in her seat.

They were in Geneva, presence requested by the Minister of Foreign Affairs of Bulgaria. Dalton and Russell Jackson didn’t want her to attend which only seemed to solidify her decision to go. They wouldn’t even be here for a full three days, yet the prep was extensive. Speeches were prepared. Binders put together. Hour to hour schedules were drawn up.

Everything had been going smoothly up until her unexpected run in with the Foreign Minister of China— the Secretary had met him twice before, and just from those two interactions he could tell that Minister Chen not only found the right buttons, but he pushed them too.

That’s how he found himself sitting outside her bathroom door as she got ready. ‘Talk to me.’ It’s not the first time his presence had been requested.

He didn’t mind clingy, not if it’s what she needed. But the reason why, the why behind her sudden behavior change, had picked away at his brain for the last three weeks.

‘She’s having nightmares.’ Henry had muttered as they waited in the kitchen as she’d lugged her suitcase down the stairs. She fell asleep on the plane after his persistent urging to take a nap. Twenty minutes later she’d jerked awake with an almost inaudible gasp. _Almost._ No one else bats an eye. No one else would, could realize unless they knew what to look for. Her eyes wandered the cabin until they found his.

His fingers hover over the keys. “We need to leave in thirty minutes,” he shouts over the hiss of water. And then he resumes typing out a response to the email that had come in four minutes ago— they seem to flood his inbox every time he looked away from the screen.

“And the plan is for me to meet with Ming before the dinner?”

He nods before he realizes that she can’t see him. “Yes ma’am. The plan is for you to speak with Minister Chen before you sit down for dinner,” he confirms.

The water cuts off, and her laugh echoes. He hears the glass door of the shower open— metal clicking.

“That’ll be an awkward six courses if he doesn’t agree,” she says.

His lips twitch with a smile. Four world leaders who aren’t used to holding their tongues placed at one table… What could go wrong?

“Blake?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says as he hits send on the email to Sherry.

“You have an excuse for me to leave at the ready right?”

Her tone makes the question come off as lighthearted, a joke, but he picks up on the nerves.

“I can have you whisked out of the ballroom within a minute’s notice.”

He hears her laugh, and this time it’s real.

His head lifts from his laptop, eyes drifting to the door, and—

“I’m glad you’re—” He doesn’t hear the rest. His eyes catch her figure in the mirror. Almost her entire bare backside. He notices toned tanned muscles, though he’s not surprised, as she scrubs a towel through the ends of her hair. And when she bends down his eyes dart back to his screen. She’s rambling still, but he’s too embarrassed to listen. What did he think, she think, would happen leaving the bathroom door half open? She walks out a moment later, a towel wrapped around herself, covering what needed to be covered, but— but she seemed oblivious to the implication of her walking around nearly naked while he sat right there in the corner. She seemed oblivious to the way his eyes followed her as she moved across the room to the dresser and then to the closet.

He chalked it up to be the tension of meeting with Ming. And she’d been clingy lately. There had to be a good reason.


	4. Car Ride Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed this up and totally thought this episode came after their trip to Venezuela... I really need to rewatch. Enjoy!

Although she had initially put up a fight about him riding with her to the hospital, she didn’t complain when he’d slid into the backseat of the SUV. 

She was quiet in the car, but after the day they’d had, the quiet that may have usually made him a bit uneasy had him settling back against the leather seat— the rain softly puttering down against the roof of the car only proved to lull his mind into a state of further calm because at some point his eyelids must have fluttered closed. 

He wasn’t sure if sleep had actually come, but if it did, not much time had passed from when he had nodded off to her soft words waking him from the light sleep. 

“Did she say anything to you?” 

He blinks his eyes open. “Ma’am?” He’d more than half missed what she’d said. 

“Stevie,” she mutters. “Did she say anything to you?” 

He swallows.

She’s so still, so… quiet as she sits watching out the window. 

“When?” He asks because she’d said a lot, but he wasn’t sure how much, if any, to share. 

She turns her head. “On her way out.” 

‘You know, we spend all this time wondering whether we’re good enough to even be around her. But what if we’re better?’ 

“Nothing with any context,” he tells her. 

She gives a slow nod, and usually, he would say something, maybe prompt another question, but he’s been getting good at knowing when she needed to talk, wanted to talk, but just needed a moment to think through the words. 

“I—” He’s not surprised she stutters; she looks flustered. “Sometimes I think she’s right about the things she says about me.” 

His lips part— she couldn’t know about what Stevie had said before getting on the elevator. Had she said something earlier? Said something that morning? Or maybe she was referring to the comments that he was sure had been made over the years. 

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” 

She looks to the two men in the front seat. 

“Look at me,” he says. By now he knew nothing they said ever left the car. He knew she knew that too. 

Instead of meeting his eyes, her gaze falls on her lap. Her fingers fiddle with the edge of her skirt, and— “I signed off on enhanced interrogation.” She swallows. “And not just once or twice.” 

And suddenly it all makes sense— Stevie’s comment. The Secretary’s mood. 

“Okay,” he says. 

She looks up.

“Okay?” She questions. “That— That doesn’t bother you?” 

He has his own personal opinion, everyone does, but not everyone is in her shoes… Not everyone has worked in this line of profession; not everyone’s days consist of reading, watching, listening as a nightmare played out right in front of their own two eyes. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the emotional toll that could have possibly taken on her. 

“You’re a good person. Please try to remember that,” he tells her. “And whatever Stevie said—” he shakes his head. “—says” he corrects. God knows it will happen again. “Whatever she says to you remember that she’s still a child.” 

She turns away from him, facing the window. 

“She is a child,” She says. 

And he can’t miss the lone tear she swipes away with her knuckle. 

“And the others?”

She could be referring to anyone. The rest of her family? Her staff? The over the top critics? 

“The ones you’ll want beside you will stay beside you.” 

“You’re so sure,” she whispers. 

“Tonight, I’ll be sure for the both of us,” he says as the car comes to a stop. 

Fred steps out of the car, but she makes no move to do the same. 

“You don’t have to go in there you know,” he tells her. 

She takes a breath. 

“I know,” she says as she opens the door.


	5. Hush Hush

The last minute addition of Venezuela to the itinerary hadn’t phased him— she’d added on eleventh hour stops before. No, it wasn’t the change of schedule, it was her newfound demeanor. And not only hers.

‘You two have been quite chummy,’ he’d commented as they walked out into the garden.

She merely shook her head.

He glanced over to the Secretary who was still happily occupied with Colonel Fuentes, before doing what he did next.

He’d grabbed her bicep, leading her over to one of the benches beneath the trees, nearly out of sight, and certainly out of earshot.

‘What was that?’ He hissed.

She’d smiled. ‘You don’t do well when you’re out of the loop do you?’

He felt his eye twitching. ‘Nadine,’ he warned.

She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders. ‘Why don’t you go ask your boss?’

‘Our boss,’ he’d corrected. ‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you two have been holed up in her office lately.’

‘That’s a conversation that needs to happen between you and her.’ She sidestepped him. ‘All I’ll say is that she just saved my ass,’ she said before making her way across the grass.

He hovered in the doorway of her office, caught between keeping his mouth shut and asking. He wasn’t one to pry, not when it came to the actual political side of her job, but he could argue that whatever this was that was going on was affecting her emotionally. Ever since that night she was called to the Sit—

“Are you just going to stand there?”

His eyes dart up. “Ma’am I—”

“Go home, Blake,” she tells him. She looks up over the frames of her glasses. “It’s late.”

He debated turning around and forgetting the knot of worry building in his gut. But he remembered his job, what he needed to do, and who he needed to do it for.

He steps further into the room and— “What is going on?”

He sees her swallow as she slowly pulls her glasses from her face and folds the arms in before setting them atop her desk.

She meets his eyes and— “And what is it that you’re referring to?” She folds her hands in her lap.

He steps up to her desk. “I’m referring to your sudden liking of Nadine,” he says. “I’m referring to the abrupt switch up in the schedule. First booting Nauru only to bring in the Israeli delegation, and then, with all due respect ma’am, adding Venezuela to the South American tour when we had no business of being there.” He takes a breath. “Or maybe how you shake every time we’re en route to the White House.”

He sees her stiffen, and her gaze falls once the last two words leave his lips.

He sucks in a breath— he probably shouldn’t have said that last bit.

And he’s completely prepared for her to give _him_ the boot, but instead, she sighs and runs a hand through her hair— the gesture is just as good as her verbally admitting that something _was_ wrong.

“Blake,” she whispers. She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you,” she mutters. “I won’t tell you,” she says more sternly.

She’s almost hiding it, but he can see the concern playing out on her face. From him noticing? From whatever it was that was going on? He didn’t know.

“I— You can tell me anything,” he says softly.

“Not this.” She meets his eyes. “Not yet, okay?”

He nods out of respect, but— “I’m staying with you,” he tells her.

She’s shuffling papers around her desk now. “Fine,” she breathes. “I have a call with Isabelle. It shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

“Okay.” He takes the hint. “I’ll be at my desk,” he tells her.

‘I trust you,’ he means.

He works at his computer for the next hour while she chats with Isabelle— he could’ve told her that their talk would surpass the thirty minutes she’d estimated. Recently, they’d become closer, regularly seeming to grab dinner. Fred had said she’d been visiting their home quite a bit. But tonight, at nearly midnight, their talk didn’t seem like a gossip session between two old friends.

He gets a notification when the call disconnects.

“I have a few briefs I want to get through,” she says when he takes her coat off the hanger. And instead of telling her she can take her work home with her, he draped her jacket over the back of the chair and held his tongue.

As she reads, he sits on the sofa, first reviewing tomorrow’s schedule, and then clearing out his inbox.

It’s a quarter after one when she huffs. He looks up as her head falls back against her chair.

“Okay,” she says, and he, understanding the one word, stands and begins collecting her things.

“You really shouldn’t have stayed Blake,” she mutters as he helps her into her coat.

“If you’re here I’m here ma’am.”

She shrugs it on before turning.

He hands over her briefcase, and— “I moved back your morning.”

He was sure she would argue, but instead, she patted his arm and gave a small smile.

“Thank you,” she mumbles as they make for the door.

He flips the light switch on the wall just as they’re stepping through the doorway, and— “You got a minute?"

His head whips up and it’s hard to miss the way the Secretary slightly jumps. And the man on the sofa isn’t only the last person he wants to see right now, but he knows Russell Jackson is the last person his boss needs lounging outside her office in the middle of the night.

“You scared me,” she admits.

“I thought we might have a talk,” he tells her, and it’s almost like he’s not there. His eyes are on hers.

He can’t miss the way the muscles in her neck tighten, the way her shoulders stiffen. She swallows, turns her head, and— “Go home, Blake.” Her words are dry, her tone is tired, and her eyes… well he can’t seem to place the emotion he sees there.

He steps towards her, dropping his head. “Are you sure?” He whispers.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, but he’s not convinced. “Go home,” she repeats.

He gives her one last look, silently asking one more time, but she nods. He gives Russell a stare before leaving them.

“You want to know about what went on in Venezuela?” he hears as he turns the corner.

He walks to the elevator feeling even more uneasy than he did this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If something sounds off about this I'm blaming it on jet lag... enjoy


	6. Push

“Is she on schedule?”

“Yes, Henry,” He says as he watches Jay snap his fingers in his direction. “Though there’s not much of one today,” he mumbles as he fingers through the desk drawer that serves as his own personal filing cabinet. 

“I tried to convince her not to go in at all.” 

He hands off a file to Jay before he moves his cell phone, so it’s pinched between his cheek and shoulder. 

“Well—” he grabs the first stack of papers from his inbox tray and straightens them by tapping them against the top of his desk. “—she has assured me that after this meeting with Mrs. Banks she’s out the door.”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the line and then— “Is she in there now?” 

“Yes.” 

“She wants you to check in on the kids,” Henry says. 

“She’s told me.” He wheels his chair closer to his desk and begins separating the stack of documents into smaller piles. “About ten times actually.” 

“You don’t have to,” he tells him. “They’re more than capable of looking after themselves.” 

“She’s just worried.” He reaches for the stapler. “Really I don’t mind.” He laughs, and— “Plus she’s threatened to fire me if I don’t.” 

“She’d never make good on it.” 

He switches the phone over to his other ear. 

“Yeah, well you never know.” His eyes follow Matt as he wanders into the conference room after Daisy. “She’s still upset about Stevie,” he blurts out. He’s not sure what compels him to say it; he knows the topic is a highly sensitive one. 

“She said she was fine this morning.”

His voice is more grim, but still more concern than anger. 

“Forty minutes ago, she was telling a different story,” he admits. “Though she did seem a bit agitated, and maybe like she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

“Is that your way of telling me not to bring it up?” 

“Maybe,” he says. “Really, it’s up to you, but if you want this trip to end happily for you, I advise you not to bring it up.” 

“Duly noted,” Henry says just as Caroline appears, leading Mrs. Banks and her son down the hall. 

He stands, and— “There’s Mrs. Banks now. I’ll have her home in twenty.” 

“Thanks, Blake.” 

The line cuts out, and as he passes through into her office, he slips his cell into his jacket pocket. 

He makes a beeline to the coat closet, and— “Time to go,” he says as he pulls on the knob.


	7. Gatekeep for Some

“But, ma’am, would you really miss Prince Obaid’s funeral?”

He feels helpless watching as she contemplates, head down towards the floor, or maybe her lack of response is simply because she didn’t hear Daisy at all. And when she pushes off from the table, he’s a bit uncomfortable that the three others are witnessing what’s sure to be a private moment, what _should_ be a private moment.

Nadine steps back, out of her way, and when she brushes past him, her eyes lock with his— he doesn’t only see the hurt there, but the pleading to do what she normally despised. And when Nadine makes no move to do so, he steps up, holding his palm out to Daisy, and— “She needs a minute,” he tells her.

_Gatekeep._

It didn’t always involve her food.

Daisy steps back, but— “She needs to make a decision,” she says.

He looks to Nadine, hoping maybe she’d take this one, but she remains quiet.

_Really?_

“She does,” he says reluctantly, agreeing. He crosses his arms over his chest, knowing full well that the stance made him appear larger. A little intimidation never hurt. “And she will.”

Nadine has the two cents to usher the other two out, leaving him alone in the conference room. And although the room is separate, it still is connected to her office, and more privacy was better than less. Or maybe she had been thinking that she had better get Daisy and Jay far away before he _actually_ became intimidating.

He raises his wrist, and pulls back the cuff of his sleeve, checking the time— he decides to give her another five minutes before going in.

He hears the water running when he steps through to her office. And when he’s close enough to see into the bathroom through the open doorway, she’s standing in front of the sink, dabbing at her face with a towel.

“Madam Secretary?” His voice is soft.

When she continues to stare straight ahead into the mirror, he worries she may not have heard him.

He takes a step closer to the door and— “Ma’am?” He tries again.

She nudges the handle of the faucet with her wrist and the water cuts off. She straightens up, lets out a breath, and throws the hand towel down onto the countertop. And after she watches it land half in the sink, half out, she turns.

“It’s my fault he’s dead,” she says.

Her cheeks are red but pale almost from the makeup, or lack of, that had been rubbed away.

He shakes his head. “It’s not,” he tells her.

“It is,” she says firmly as she pushes past him.

She makes it halfway to her desk when she stops mid step, letting her shoulders slump.

“I’m the one who convinced him to come out against the Hassanis. I—” And the last of what she’d planned to say was swept up into a mumble of words, and a cry.

He’d seen anger plenty of times before. Even a touch of jealousy one afternoon when that rumor circulated about Henry having an affair. There’d been glimpses of vulnerability, but so far, he’d never seen her upset to this extent.

And while he wants to take a step back and wonder why she allows herself to be vulnerable around him instead of any other member of the senior staff, he pushes the question of why him out of his head and steps up behind her.

He lays a hand on her arm, and— “The only person at fault is the crazed gunman who shot Prince Obaid in the chest.”

When she lets out a shaky breath, he turns her— her eyes find his, and both her hands find his arms.

“Do you want me to call Henry?” he whispers.

She nods.

“Okay,” he says, but she doesn’t move, and he doesn’t step back until she does.


	8. Cornered at the Bar

He’s pointed to the right of the bar, though he can spot the group of half-drunk people from the door— the table’s all wrinkled suits, sulking expressions, and, by some, slurred words. 

Matt notices him approaching first.

“Blake!” He greets him with a lopsided smile. “You getting fired too?” 

He can’t tell if it’s a joke. 

He laughs as he pulls a chair over from a neighboring table. “There are only a few scenarios in which she would fire me.” He collapses into the chair with a huff. “And this isn’t one of them,” he says. 

Matt leans over and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Well then, it looks like you’re buying,” he jokes. 

“What happened to spend it while you got it?” Daisy teases. 

Matt sips from his drink and then— “That was before there was a possibility of not having it.” 

While Jay and Matt dive into a conversation of who will have a harder time pinching pennies, Nadine leans towards him and— “She went home?” 

“No.”

“God, she’s still in there with Mike B.” Her grumble is accompanied by an eye roll.

“No,” he says again. 

He watches as her brow knits. 

“Then?”

His fingers tap against the tabletop. “Another one of her unofficial late night meetings,” he whispers. 

She looks surprised. 

“And you didn’t stay with her?” 

That… That certainly wasn’t the response he was expecting, but— “She practically threw me out,” he tells her. “Believe me I didn’t go by choice.” 

He sees something pull in her eyes as she sits back in her chair. It’s the same something he now often saw in the Secretary’s. 

He leans forward and— “Nadine—” he begins, but she pushes back from the table. 

“I’ll get us another round,” she announces to the group. 

“I’ll help,” he says, quickly standing, and following her to the bar. 

She leans up against the wood, hands gripped around the ledge, and he copies her stance. 

And as they wait for the bartender to make his rounds among the patrons, some dressed in suits with fancy watches, while others, regulars, sitting in jeans and button downs, he wishes he knew her a bit better, knew an efficient way to get what he wanted. 

He ducks his head near hers and— “Munsey and Russell are on the schedule again.” 

She shakes her head. “And?” 

“What do you know?” He whispers. 

She’s looking towards the bartender now, avoiding the same question he’s been asking for weeks. 

Shot glasses are being filled when— “Nothing that will interest you.”

He frowns. “You know that’s not true.”

She turns to him. “Blake, I’m in the dark as much as you are. The only thing I can tell you is what went on in Venezuela.” She sighs. “But even then, I don’t know the why behind it.” 

“Tell me,” he says.

The conversation begins with her saying she doesn’t look good in orange and ends with an even bigger web of confusion leading absolutely no one where other than the Secretary herself.


	9. Trust No One

The last two weeks the car rides to the White House had been anything but quiet— she’d ramble on about the kids. Stevie took up their conversations the majority of the days, at least until the elder daughter had decided to move back home last week. He’d learned early on not to push too much before she was whisked away to handle a security concern, so the car rides were, mostly, on her terms— it was the one time he would, without comment, let her do and say what she wanted. 

He had been pleasantly, but still cautiously, surprised by the shift in moods— the last two weeks the car rides to the White House had been anything but quiet. She’d been rambling. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t decide if it was nerves or happiness. A week in he noticed that the trembling that was usually there, the anxiety provoking silence that had fallen between them, had gone. 

Although he had been cautious, although he hadn’t let the idea that everything was, in fact okay, take over, he had let himself hope that just maybe it was. 

…That hope was squashed when Daisy, followed by Nadine marched up to his desk, demanding a moment of the Secretary’s time immediately after Mrs. Boris was escorted down the hall. Though after about two whole minutes of waiting they had both decided that an explanation about what he now knew was some sort of a botched operation caught on camera couldn’t wait. 

And now as they sit in the back of the SUV, the trembling was back. 

“I know I can’t ask, but—” He can’t find the courage to finish. 

He ducks his head when a minute passes without an answer.

And the car is quiet until— “I knew about it,” she mutters. 

His eyes lift as she turns from the window. 

“I signed off on it,” she tells him. 

And another silence falls over the car until they’re pulling through the gates. 

“I shouldn’t be long,” she tells him. “Well, I guess that depends on how angry Conrad decides to be.”

“I’ll be here,” he mumbles as he hands over her briefcase and then her purse.

He waits for her at the doors. And the President must be pretty pissed because she’s in there for over two hours. 

“I’m going to Turkey,” she tells him as they walk back to the car. 

He has a bad feeling about the trip for the remainder of the day, and it’s not until he receives a call requesting him on the tarmac does he allow himself to read into those feelings. 

“She wouldn’t leave without talking to you first,” Frank says as he’s escorted up the airstair— his hand grips the rail as they take the steps two at a time. 

When he turns the corner into the cabin, he sees her pacing up and down the aisle between the seats, one hand on her forehead while the other is at her hip. 

“What’s going on?” He asks as he closes the distance between them. 

She looks up, her hand falls away from her head, and— “Good. You’re here,” she breathes. “I didn’t want to leave without talking to you first.” 

He can feel his forehead pinching in the middle. 

He didn’t like the way she looked— hair pulled back, sweat on her brow, sleeves rolled up just above her elbows. He didn’t like the way she sounded— panicked, and even a bit out of breath. 

She holds her hands out and— “I trust you,” she says. 

He nods. “Okay,” he mutters. 

He watches as she licks her lips, as she brushes away a strand of hair, as she crosses her arms over her chest— she’s nervous. 

“I— I need to tell you something,” she says as her gaze drifts. “Though I’m breaking a number of US Code of Laws,” she mumbles. 

“Madam Secretary?” 

Her eyes find his and— “Secretary Marsh’s plane crash—” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t an accident. He was murdered.” 

His mind fogs, but he pushes through; there has to be a reason she’s telling him this.

He steps forwards, towards her, and then asks, “Who?” 

He sees her swallow, and her chest looks like it’s about to deflate. How long had she been holding this in?

“There’s a connection to a woman who works for the Iranian Foreign Intelligence Ministry.”

He nods, and suddenly what happened in Turkey makes sense. “The woman murdered in Ankara?” 

“Yes,” she says. 

Covert op gone bad. 

He lets out a breath, and— “Okay,” he mutters as he lowers himself into the nearest seat. 

She does the same. 

He looks up and across the table to her face, searching her eyes. 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because right now you’re one of four people I trust, and I need someone inside the State Department to know why I’m really flying to Ankara.” 

He watches her stand. “But I’m just—”

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand, and— “Come,” she commands.

He follows her to the front of the plane. 

“I can come with you,” he tells her.

She sucks in a breath. “No,” she says. “I need you here, okay?” 

He takes a step towards the door. “Of course, Madam Secretary.” 

He hated the idea of her flying alone, of traveling alone, especially with the information he was just provided. But he trusted her, just as she trusted him. And that trumped his nerves over this ordinary apologetic trip that was anything but.


	10. Fire

_He fought for her in her own foyer_

He’d worked in silence as they pinned dates and locations on the board. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he’d found it hard to wrap his brain around all of it. She’d only just got back from Turkey; just told him that Secretary Marsh was murdered. And now? Now they were looking at a very real possibility of a war with Iran.

He’d been surprised by Nadine’s admission of the relationship between herself and Vincent Marsh, but now, now as he’s thinking it through, thinking back over her first impression of the Secretary, and why that attitude may have been, he thinks he should have seen it sooner. And when she admits to the affair of six years, all the pieces begin to fall into place— her involvement; the reason why the Secretary had him looking into her, looking through her phone calls, her emails, and her bank statements; why she had access to the bank account in Caracas. It made sense, and he wishes it didn’t.

They were in the back of the car, riding back from the White House. She’d been there for hours, so he’d assumed. He had assumed that they had figured out some plan to stop the Middle East, and frankly the whole world from crumbling to pieces, and maybe even going up in a nuclear flash.

“Progress?” He’d asked.

He didn’t want to push, not when she had her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, not in peace, but from fear.

She’d nodded, and said, “We’re deciding in the morning.”

It’s vague, but he doesn’t question it, figuring she’d tell him when she thought best.

And maybe it made sense because of the bit of alcohol he’d thrown back while at the bar with the others, but he had no reason not to believe her.

He should have seen it— the way her body was turned away from his, the way her eyes wouldn’t meet his own. 

The seventh floor is oddly quiet when he arrives half past six the next morning. He chalks up the feeling to the utter madness of what went on yesterday, and what he’d bet his paycheck on would go on today. As he makes his way to his desk, he sends a text to Frank, reminding him to message when the Secretary departed for the Truman.

He’d triple checked her schedule, clearing away everything that was able to be cleared; he’d cleaned up his inbox, deleting what needed to be deleted, and responding to the emails that held importance; he’d organized his desk before taking it upon himself to organize hers. He finds his eyes glancing towards the clock almost every four minutes.

He sends a text to the Secretary herself before beginning to arrange binders for the next week, assuming of course this whole mess with Marsh, and Munsey, and Iran would be settled come the next seven days.

It’s quarter till eight when he picks up the phone to call Fred, officially beginning to worry. The line goes straight to voicemail. He tries Frank next, and when he gets no response, he makes his way down two more names before he finally pushes his chair away from his desk.

He tries to remind himself not to worry until he has to, but he had never good at mindful thinking, especially when it came to her. And when he thinks about all the boundaries she’d pushed, all the people she’d pissed off, not even five full months into this job, he begins to sweat through his shirt.

He knocks against the glass, but he’s already stepping through the door before she has the chance to wave him in.

“Where is she?” He means to be stern, but it comes out more of a whisper. And he almost hopes she doesn’t hear because he has a feeling he’s not going to like her answer.

She looks up over the thin frames of her glasses, and— she frowns. “She didn’t tell you?”

And she’s just as surprised as he is.

Half an hour later he’s pushing past Henry into their entryway.

He sidesteps him and— “You can’t let her do this,” he says.

The words fly out of his mouth as he looks into the office. And when she’s not there he moves to the staircase.

“Where is she?”

He has one hand on the rail when— “Blake, she left an hour ago.”

His jaw clenches and his fingers tighten around the wood— it feels as if he’d been hit in the chest.

“But—” His hand falls away, and he turns, shaking his head. “—the SUVs out front. She’s—”

Henry takes a step towards him. “They only took one,” he tells him.

He swallows back the bit of acid he can feel at the back of his throat. He feels dizzy. He feels… He feels fire. Rage towards her, towards Nadine, towards—

He looks up and his eyes meet Henry’s and— “You let her go?”

He watches as he visibly stumbles over his words.

“Ultimately, in the end, Elizabeth does what Elizabeth wants. I—”

He laughs.

Was he serious?

Maybe she had before this job, before she’d taken him on as her assistant, but ever since that first Wednesday behind the desk, he was the one calling the shots. Maybe he was blind to what he really did, does, maybe she was too. And maybe Elizabeth did do what she wanted, but the Secretary certainly did not. 

He takes a step forward. “You could have stopped her.”

Henry shakes his head.

He points a finger at his chest. “You should have stopped her!”

He didn’t normally raise his voice, but he decides right now he can’t be held accountable for his actions.

“Blake.”

It’s a warning. And it takes him four seconds and a quick glance over his shoulder to realize Stevie is standing on the landing.

He steps close, close enough that his voice would only be heard by the two of them.

“Why in the hell didn’t she tell me she was going?” He hisses.

“I— I’m sorry.”

He steps back. “So am I,” he breathes.

He makes for the door, but when his hand grasps the knob he turns, looking to Stevie. “Tell Alison I said happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angry Blake, anyone?


	11. Weak

_He cried for her in the conference room._

He’s never been one to be weak.

He stands staring out the window, watching as the cars pass by, as the people walk along the sidewalk, as DC carries on without her. He has this deranged belief that he could have stopped her, saved her, convinced her not to sacrifice her own safety for… well the coup still happened. She didn’t, couldn’t, stop it. President Shiraz’s status is still unknown, but if he did die, what was it that she nearly sacrificed her life for?

If _she_ died, what exactly did she die for

He hadn’t been at this job that long, yet he was beginning to understand why so many politicians suffer heart attacks— he didn’t know if he could handle something like this again, and with her track record, with her ambitions, with her carefree attitude, he was screwed.

But he’d rather be screwed, he’d rather suffer a near heart attack every evening if it meant she’d come home in one breathing, one heart beating, piece. 

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and— “We’re not losing another Secretary of State.”

He shakes his head, as he lets his hand fall from where he was pulling back the curtain.

“If she dies it’ll be my fault,” he says.

The hand on his shoulder urges him to turn and when he does, he’s being pulled down into a hug.

“You know that wouldn’t be true,” Nadine whispers.

He pulls back. “No,” he says.

She frowns, and— “Blak—”

“Nadine.” It’s Jay’s voice.

They both turn, and he watches as Jay nods towards the Secretary’s office. An intern stands, hovering in the doorway.

“Russell Jackson is on the phone for you ma’am,” she says.

He watches her nod.

“I’ll be back,” she announces to everyone in the room, but she’s looking directly at him.

“Sit, okay?” She says before turning and following the young woman back through to the office.

He takes her advice and sinks into one of the chairs.

She’s gone too long for it to be ‘she’s dead’ but also too long for it to be a simple ‘she’s on a plane home.’

He wonders what it will look like if she _does_ come home. What in the hell had she seen? What happened? Why was she unaccounted for?

He sighs, head leaning back against the leather, as he reminds himself that she has to be alive first.

The pocket doors slide open about ten minutes later; he swivels in his chair, and he can’t help but notice the smile on her face.

He stands just before— “She’s alive,” she says.

And the weight on his chest, on his heart, falls away.

“She’s alive,” she repeats, looking into his eyes.

And he breathes, breathing for what it seems like the first time in two days.

He leans over the table, hands grasping the wood, as he lets out a breath.

_She’s alive._

And it’s when he feels a hand clap him on his back, that he lets the tears that have been building, burning the back of his eyes, fall.

He’s never been one to be weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I was writing in order, but I've been going with my urges. I just wrote a chapter that takes place in season three, and it is straight comedy (in my opinion at least)... Let's just say I can't wait to post it... whenever that may be.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a handful of these written. I kind of wanted to go in order, following the order of the show, but I may just post what I write when I write because right now I'm not writing in order.


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